Twisted Vector
by capjack54
Summary: The unexplored plot twist to the episode 'Vector'. Terribly unimaginative, but I'm new to the show... hopefully a good start.
1. Fracture

**1. Fracture**

Don's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean, you were wrong?"

Charlie sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I mean I was wrong, Don. Not enough of the patients came from Union Station, less than fifty percent by far. But watch what happens when I change the point of origin to the Amtrak bus station."

He hit a key on his computer, and the system buzzed in concentration as the spidery roots that were the epidemic rearranged themselves, all connecting to the new point.

"More than eighty percent of the victims had contact with the terminal or people who had come from it," confirmed Charlie. "I'll have to re-work the equation again, find out where it'll spread based on this basepoint. It could take me a few hours, but if I start now…" He glanced nervously at his watch. "If I start now, then it'll only be… twelve when I'm done. Three hours, and I can have it for you, just give me three hours..."

Don studied him carefully, noting the frantic undertones in his voice and the wild hand gestures with worry. "Look, Charlie, it's nine at night, and this isn't even your case. If you want to second-guess yourself, that's fine, but you look exhausted. It can wait until morning."

Charlie shot him a disbelieving look. "Uh, no, Don, we can't afford to wait until morning." He turned and grabbed a marker off the desk and started scribbling on the board. "If we've been at this since seven this morning… and we have 18 deaths total so far… it's quite simple, really. Eighteen people in fourteen hours, that's one point two eight five seven one four two eight—" he scribbled each digit on the board, "—one point two eight five seven one four two eight five seven etcetera people per hour, Don. If I start now, then only three people…" He trailed off, slumping against the desk with a wild expression in his eyes, his face pale and sweaty. Don approached him cautiously, taking the marker from his hand and watching him with a stern expression.

"Go home, Charlie," he said. "Go home and get some rest. Your head's not straight right now."

Their eyes met, and Charlie slowly nodded, a dazed look on his face. "Okay," he said faintly, sliding off the desk. "Okay."

There was something about his tone that made Don turn as he made for the door. "You feeling all right?"

Stopping in the door, Charlie faced him. "Yeah," he replied. "Just a headache."

He made off across the darkened office and was gone.


	2. Ascension and Fallout

**2.1. Ascension**

The click-clack of the chalk against his eighth chalkboard was almost soothing, providing a cadence to which his mind could whir, only interrupted by the occasional coughing fit. He paid little attention to the occasional glimpses of his father's worried face through the window of his locked door, all of his concentration focused on the massive equation in front of him… or so it seemed. Though a steady stream of numbers and functions flew from his brain to his hand to the board, his mind was spinning with anything but the basepoint theorem.

He winced as he heard the numbers from the report over and over, saw the people he would never know sprawled lifelessly about on benches and buses and in cars, but suddenly, it was Don's face that stared blankly at the camera, Don's glazed eyes that disappeared as the zipper of the body bag closed over them… He shook his head, blinking to clear the images from it, and elapsed into another coughing fit, his head pounding in time to his bucking lungs. He'd taken three aspirin already; it was statistically impossible for them to all have not worked. The garage was unusually hot tonight, especially for September. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the scatter pattern he diagrammed out for himself already, leaning back just a little to take it all in…

…and suddenly he was falling, falling through the floor and through the endless continuity of space, and it seemed the whole world fell on top of him…

**2.2. Fallout**

"Don…"

He woke with a start at the summons, glad to be rid of the grotesque dreams his trip to the quarantine center had afforded him with. Grunting, he raised his head off his desk and blinked until Terry came into focus.

"Sorry," he said. "Must have dozed off. What time is it?"

"It's seven thirty in the morning, which means you've already put in six hours of work today, considering you never left last night."

He gave a weak smile and rubbed his face where it had been pressed into his keyboard. "Right. And you woke me up because...?"

"Oh. Charlie said he needed more data to check that equation of his, and do we have some all right. Ten cases have sprung up since last night, and there are still reports coming in on new ones." She dumped a large stack of manilla folders on his desk. "These are the ones that have been documented so far."

He flipped through them with a groggy interest. "Good, good… is Charlie in yet? I sent him home last night with a bedrest order."

She shook her head. "Not yet. He's probably exhausted… do you know how long he's worked on this? Four hours straight yesterday."

"That's nothing for Charlie," Don replied. "He once went three months without leaving the garage, trying to solve an impossible problem. But he was looking kind of run down yesterday…" He trailed off biting his lip. "Well, just tell me when he gets in. And run down some of the undocumented cases, see if you can get their activities down."

"All right." She went to leave.

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he picked it up.

"Eppes," he answered absentmindedly. "Dad. Do you know where Charlie is? I have, uh, some stuff for him to work out." He stopped, sitting completely still. "What? Okay, slow down and tell me what happened."

Terry backtracked, standing in the doorway with a perplexed expression.

"Okay, don't go anywhere, don't do anything, just stay put. I'm on my way."

He threw the phone down, not bothering to see if it was back in the cradle properly before grabbing his suitcoat and striding towards the door.

"What is it, Don?" Terry asked, following him a step or two.

"It's Charlie," he said. "He was working in the garage on the stupid scatter pattern problem and collapsed. They say…" he faltered. Then he looked up.

"They say he has the Spanish flu."


	3. Welcome to Wonderland

3

**3. Welcome to Wonderland**

Locked up.

The first words to drift through his mind in millennia.

Locked up in a cold room with no light and no sound, n o friendly stimulus for the mind that works like an abridged book; all the important bits are there, but not much else. To him it seemed a vacuum, a pocket of pure, refreshing nothing in this world of too many things, too many people and names and brothers.

Brothers?

The word seemed arbitrary, but no, a voice had suggested it to him. The voice with the kind face and the sad eyes.

"Charlie, it's me. It's your brother. Charlie? Hang in there, buddy…"

A hand of his reached out to touch the face – tried to reach out, but the air was a solid thing, holding him in place with a steady hand of its own. Anger found him there in the dark; he struggled to get free, but the weight of the space about him increased. Fear found him as well, and went to sit by Anger to watch him squirm and fight against… nothing at all. Fear pulled his eyes wide as Fate laughed at him from a corner.

"It's okay," soothed the voice with the brother-face. "It's okay, Charlie, just relax, just relax…"

Strength came to him from without at this, and it started to rain, a torrential downpour of the most beautiful things he would ever see.

Numbers.

Suddenly free, he plucked a one from the sheets of digits and functions and set it before him. A seven he grabbed next, and a dash after that; he shook a three from his hair and plucked a one off his glasses, finding a two next to that already. An eight snuck slyly in between the seven and the three.

His voice had followed Anger and Fear and happened upon him in this little world of his. He tried it: weak, but it would have to do.

"Don?"

The brother-faced voice sat in the sky and watched him. "Right here, Charlie."

"I know it, Don. I know the answer."

"What answer, Charlie?"

He told him. Then his mind took him by the hand and led him deep into the monsoon of digits, leaving the brother-voice in the dark, cold rain to shout after him alone.


	4. Disintegrate

Thanks for the reviews; they make me smile! For clues on how to break the code yourself, check out chapter 4 of my other fanfic...

**4. Disintegrate**

Don sat with his head in his hands, blinking furiously from both the cruel fluorescent lights that lined the soulless hallway and the tears that threatened, blurring his vision. Looking up, he stared fixedly through the observation window across the way, through which a frail form on a pristine hospital bed was visible. Charlie's pale face was contorted in concentration, as if he were simply trying to solve a difficult problem; even though his eyes were shut, Don felt his gaze upon him, its innocence waking more guilt within him than any accusation could have.

The sound of a door opening suddenly broke the silence; he started in surprise, his eyes meeting Terry's as she slipped into the ward.

"Hey," she said, lamely. "How is he?"

"Asleep," he replied, rubbing furiously at his eyes to hide the tears there. "Keeps talking in his sleep, spitting out numbers."

"Definitely Charlie," she admitted, stopping gin front of him and crossing her arms. Her expression was pained as she stared through the glass. "How could this have happened? He was one of the only ones not to visit the quarantine zone."

"Weaver," he answered simply.

"What?"

"Clarence Weaver visited the office when Charlie made the discovery that there were two viral strains loose. Remember he gave a long speech on the integrity of his coworkers? I was watching him; he was fooling around with something in his pocket. He was releasing the virus. It could have infected any of us – Weaver was just lucky that it chose Charlie, the only person whop could predict and stop the spread of the virus."

Terry stood for a minute, processing the information. "Maybe it wasn't just luck. Charlie hadn't slept or eaten since this started; he was the perfect target."

Don tipped his head in acknowledgement. "Our first priority now is finding Weaver. I have two units on the way to his house and another posted at his work. I want you to call David and start working on where else he might be."

She nodded. "What will you do?"

He stood and slipped on his coat. "I'm going to see Amita; maybe she can figure out how to use Charlie's formula. Or maybe she can break a code for me."

"A code?" Terry repeated with interest.

"It was something Charlie said; he told me had the answer." He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. It had six numbers scribbled on it.

17-8-312

"And this is the answer to…?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"I don't know, but I'll find out." The sudden strength in his voice made her stare. "I owe it to him."

"Don," she said levelly, handing the slip back to him, "none of this is your fault. You know that, right?"

Shaking his head, he pocketed the scrap and pushed past her. She watched him go with a concern that she knew in her heart was not purely professional…


	5. Fixation and The Blind Man Sees

Sorry for the lateness of this update... school's getting crazy and it comes first.

Meanwhile, enjoy this update.

**5.1. Fixation**

The dreamer watched the world, the rolling hills of slope lines and mountains of algorithms he had yet to overcome. Trudging slowly up the one he was currently tackling, he moaned in pain and frustration. His muscled still ached from the last algorithmic summit he'd bagged: 17-8-312. The path then had been simple and straightforward, a pleasant hike through the constant drizzle of numbers from above.

But the numbers fell faster now, worsening to a shower and peaking at a downpour. They covered the path before him some threatening to trip him, others beckoning appealingly, as if to lead him astray. One succeeded in its task, giving way under his foot; he stumbled and fell, his knees burning as the sharp ridges of sevens cut into them. He allowed himself only a minute of rest before raising his eyes once more to the distant summit, the answer to this endless equation, the one he needed.

Images flashed through his mind, spidery roots of red splayed out over the map of L.A. he'd left in Don's office. By his will, it stretched and expanded, transforming into reality at his feet. From his impossible perch in the sky, it seemed a glass pane had been suspended over the city, allowing him a bird's eye view. The lines remained and it was these he followed, walking along each, tracking the path of infection. At last he came to a stop above the virus's latest base point, the one that had confined him to this place. His gaze came to rest on one of the many windows, upon which a familiar figure leaned, staring out at the city with a watchful eye: the face of the brother-voice.

Shaking his head, he stood, staggering towards the summit with renewed determination…

**5.2. The Blind Man Sees**

"Don."

He tore his gaze from the view out the window to see Terry striding towards him; a brief flash of hope came into his eyes, but it died when she shook her head.

"Too long for a zip code, too short for a phone number… the cryptology guys are running codes, but they've turned up empty so far."

Don let out a sigh of frustration. "It's already been an hour, Terry."

"Let's face it, Don, if we came across something like this in a case, the person we'd give it to is Charlie." Don ran a hand through his hair at the mention, a sure sign he was stressed, and her tone softened. "How is he?"

"He's getting worse," Don admitted quietly. He crossed to the board, where Charlie's maps still hung, speaking an alien language; a dot had been added to them, marking the location upon which he stood. He absentmindedly traced the route from the Union Station bus terminal to the office. Something in his mind clicked, and he went suddenly still.

"Wait," he said slowly.

"Don?"

He tapped his finger on the blatant red dot that marked the office. "Look at the distance between the Union Station bus terminal and this office." He traced the route. "Seventeen blocks south, eight blocks west."

"Seventeen eight," she said slowly. "So where does the 312 come into it?"

He pointed across the office to the conference room Charlie had been working in up until last night. Disease control had sterilized the area before their return, but the door to the room had been wired shut as a precaution. The plaque on the door read 312.

"He predicted where it would be released to maintain the spread. "He covered his eyes with his hand and smiled for the first time in two days. "He's solving math problems in his sleep."

"Any chance he's still working?" Terry suggested.

Don grabbed his coat and made for the door. "It's Charlie; of course he's still working."


	6. Bus Meets Brick Wall and Pathogen One

Thank you, Mooncat, for your inspiring review; it made me get off my butt and update!

I've been yarking up my guts the last few days with a stomach bug, but this chapter is still waaaaay overdue.

Enjoy!

**6.1. Bus Meets Brick Wall**

With a calm expression, Don surveyed the chaotic scene around him; disease control personnel were scouring the place, their strange, lumpy plastic suits visible through the windows as they paced the second-floor hall of the apartment building. Several ambulances were parked nearby, the frightened tenants gathered round it as the paramedics administered vaccinations. None of them, he had been informed, had been fully infected, although traces of the virus were found in several apartments – traces that the biohazard suits upstairs were determined to erase.

Rubbing his forehead, he glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand; rows and rows of numbers stared back at him.

17-8-312

13-11-209

7-14-17

3-19-124

The first set had a line through it, and he added one to the second, peering around with mild satisfaction at his handiwork. His handiwork? No; it was Charlie who, and hour before, had given him the figures. He shook his head and stared about him. Charlie had been right; he'd accurately predicted where the flu would spread, and in his sleep.

His thoughts were interrupted by the impersonal continental ring of his cell phone. Fishing it from his pocket, he flipped it open.

"Eppes."

"Hey, Don," Terry greeted him. "Reporting from the 17th room in the Sleep Inn. We had the whole nine yards here in fifteen minutes; biohazard's hosing down the place as we speak."

Don whistled as the crossed out the third set as well. "Good, good… any news from David?"

"Yeah, he's at 3-19-124. Everything's under control. And get this; we haven't had a single 9-1-1 call that matches the Spanish flu symptoms since." She hesitated. "I think Charlie really stopped it."

Shoving the now useless paper into his pocket, he ran a hand through his hair. "Well, if you think you can handle this, I'm going to head over to quarantine and pay the little genius a visit. With the vaccinations out and about, they figure they can work on sorting out some kind of treatment."

"Go ahead. David and I'll take care of it."

"Thanks." He flipped the phone shut and made for his car.

**6.2. Pathogen One, Home… Zero**

Down the too-familiar halls of the quarantine ward he strode, noting the sudden empty feeling the place seemed to emit. He passed room after brightly lit room, dodged shuffling doctors and nurses. Charlie had been coherent enough to unserstand what he needed upon his last visit; perhaps this good news was just what he needed to pull him out of whatever trance he was in… completely.

Mind racing with the possibilities, he half walked, half ran down the hall, his eyes finally falling upon the door marked EPPES, CHARLES. Through this he pushed, ready to tell his little brother that he had been right, that he had saved so many people, that he had stopped it once and for all; but his voice died somewhere in his throat, his muscles tense and frozen at what he saw.

The bed was empty.


	7. Survival Rate Zero

Sorry, loyal fans! My computer went completely wonky, and I had to do a good deal of fiddly-technical stuff to get this stuff off of it.

**7. Survival Rate Zero**

Don stared dumbly at the vacant, pristine room as his mind did somersaults. The room stared innocently back at him, as if asking him what exactly he was getting so worked up about. It showed no signs of having been occupied other than a small slip of paper lying on the bedside table. To this he crossed, picking up the scrap as if it were made of glass; a stream of strange, unintelligible symbols in Charlie's messy scrawl formed some sort of equation. His gaze wandered over to the bed, free of wrinkles, stains, and, most notably, Charlie.

Charlie was dead.

The words hit him hard; he sat heavily on the bed, holding his head in his hands in an effort to keep it together. Charlie was gone, and it was his fault. He should never have let Charlie work with him; the risk had been too great – for both of them. Memories of the botched bank shootout a few months back drifted back to him. Charlie had tried so hard to keep him safe, to keep him off the line and out of danger. Was this how he'd repaid him?

Liquid regret welled up in his eyes; here, in the confirming dark of the empty room, he would not be seen. The guilt in his heart turned to anger, and he yelled in frustration, lashing out at the side table. His knuckles sang fruitlessly at being so cruelly skinned.

For a single, tense moment, his eyes lingered on his nine millimeter, tucked faithfully in its holster at his right hip. It would be so easy, so easy not to have to think about it… Shaking his head, he shied away from that line of thinking. Dad would need help putting together the services; once again, he would have to be the strong one in the Eppes family.

Dad. It suddenly struck him that his father might not know yet. How would he explain to him that Charlie was…?

His inappropriately emotionless ringtone interrupted the silence. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he flipped it open, holding it to his ear as if it might explode.

"Eppes."

"Donny, finally."

His stomach went cold at the optimistic tone. "Hey, Dad."

"Look, I know we've had this conversation before, but you have risen to a new level of ridiculousness. I understand you're busy with work and everything, but is it really too much to ask for you to take an hour off and go visit your brother?"

He rubbed his forehead; this could bed. "Yeah, Dad, about that—"

"I mean, I've been trying to reach you for hours. Where the hell are you? Charlie gets out of post-op in twenty minutes."

He started in on what little of his planned answer he'd constructed, then stopped. "What?"

"It's only a fifteen minute drive from you office to L.A. General, and besides, it's 11:45 at night. I think you can spare a few minutes for Charlie."

"I'll be there in five." Mind racing, he terminated the call.


	8. Wake

**8. Wake**

The voice was so faint that, at first, Don didn't even hear it, stirring only slightly in his nonetheless shallow, troubled slumber.

"You know, Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results…"

It took a minute for Don to recognize it, but when he did, his head snapped up, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared incredulously at the upright figure on the bed.

"Charlie?"

His brother smiled an even smile and finished. "…so why you think I'll suddenly recover because you're here watching is beyond me. I seem to be the proverbial drying paint or growing grass."

Unfolding himself from the awkward curled-up position he'd been forced to assume when he first collapsed into the chair, he stood, crossing to the bed and gathering Charlie up in an entirely spontaneous and uncharacteristic hug. Charlie at first seemed taken aback, but accepted the hug with good grace.

"I'm not dying, Don. Well, not anymore, at least."

"No," Don said, and his tone made Charlie look him in the eye. "When I went to the quarantine ward, I saw the empty room…" He trailed off while Charlie considered him thoughtfully. "I thought I lost you, buddy." His tone suddenly turned angry. "Don't you ever do that to me again, you hear?"

Charlie still looked pale and tired, but the grin he managed was genuine. "Yes, Don, the next time I'm exposed to a potentially deadly virus, I'll make sure to opt out of getting infected."

Don shook his head. "No, Charlie, you don't get it; there's not going to be a next time." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I've been thinking, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to keep helping me out."

Charlie's brow shot up. "What?" he stammered.

"It's too dangerous. Look, I almost got you killed this time. Dad would kill me." He paused and reconsidered. "_I_ would kill me."

Charlie gestured for him to stop. "Wait a second. You say you're doing this to keep me safe. What do you think I would do if you were killed doing your job? What if I could have prevented it? I would never forgive myself. You know how it was with… with Mom. I always thought… I always thought I could have done something."

Don closed his eyes and shook his head. "Like what, found the cure to cancer in three months?"

He shrugged. "I found the cure to Spanish influenza in two days while in a coma-like state," he pointed out.

Don raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Why do you think they moved everyone to general population? They don't have to worry about it spreading too much, considering they can cure it faster than it can get around. But that's not the point. I don't want to have that on my conscience, Don."

Frustration kept into Don's tone. "Neither do I! You're my little brother, man. I gotta look out for you."

A laugh escaped Charlie. "Well, I guess we'll have to have each other's backs and just leave it at that." Don was going to protest, but a wide yawn from Charlie reminded him that his brother had recently survived a near-death experience. Letting out his breath, he crossed to the chair and fell into it once more, rubbing at his eyes with a similar exhaustion.

"Get some sleep," Charlie said, settling back himself. "I at least have an excuse for looking half-dead."

For once, Don took the order without complaint. Three minutes later, when Charlie's breath evened out in the cadence of sleep, Don peeked at the miracle dozing peacefully for the first time in four days.

"I got your back, buddy," he whispered softly. "I got your back."

THE END

_I'd like to inform the writing community that this is perhaps the first story I have finished since I completed the third grade. Hope you enjoyed it; there are more tales to come!_


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